"Sherlock! Somebody is coming up the stairs." John's voice was urgent, but barely above a whisper. He was cursing himself silently for once again following Sherlock's every whim and now most probably getting arrested for breaking and entering. While carrying an unregistered firearm, no less.

John almost let out a yelp of surprise when Sherlock grabbed him without warning and drew him into a closet with him. John barely had time to close the doors when the suspect of their current case walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. He suppressed an annoyed groan. God knew when they would get an opportunity to leave this closet unseen. And the thing was filled with jackets and hardly even big enough for one of them. They were uncomfortably pressed together, both facing towards the doors, where they could see the movements of the flat's owner through a narrow sliver of light.

John felt like hours had passed even though they were standing in the closet for no more than 30 minutes. It had been a long day and his feet were starting to hurt. Additionally, it was a warm summer day and he was starting to sweat in the small space, especially with Sherlock pressed into his back. Unconsciously, he started shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Suddenly, he heard Sherlock's voice, so close to his ear that he could feel his breath when he spoke. "Stop that." Even when whispering he somehow managed to sound commanding. "Stop what?" John turned his head slightly to answer and was surprised by how close Sherlock's face was to his. He guessed more than saw the eye roll Sherlock directed at him. "Stop fidgeting." "Why- oh." In the blink of an eye, John became very aware of the hardness pressed into his back. It was certainly not his firearm and Sherlock was not carrying a gun. He felt Sherlock tensing up behind him and thought about cracking an 'Is that an x or are you just happy to see me' joke but thought better of it. It probably wouldn't help to lighten the mood and it was pretty obvious that Sherlock was happy to see him. John tried to process that information.

The man in the living room stood up and, startled by the sudden movement, John moved backwards. He heard Sherlock draw in a sharp breath. The suspect moved out of the room and John peeked after him, wondering if this was there chance to make a run for it. Before he could make up his mind, the man returned with a bag of crisps and sat down in front of the telly again. John contemplated just stepping out of the closet and getting arrested rather than spending an evening watching somebody watch telly. He was seriously tempted. For one thing, he was hot and exhausted and just wanted this to be over. For another, the situation was beyond awkward. He could still feel Sherlock's erection pressed against his back. If anything, his condition seemed to get worse.

John was baffled that he could have this effect on the detective. Baffled and, if he was truly honest with himself, flattered. And possibly a little aroused.

When he thought about it later, he was never entirely sure what had compelled him to do it. It might partially have been the incredible feeling of making the great Sherlock Holmes lose his ever-present composure. What he did do was that he reached his right hand behind his back, wedged it in between them and palmed Sherlock through his trousers. The detective made a surprised yelp that he quickly muffled by putting his face down on John's shoulder. John peeked out at the man on the couch, but it looked like the loud volume of the telly had saved them.

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock through the thin fabric and was startled when Sherlock bucked his hips against him wildly. By a hair's breadth, John managed to push back by putting his other hand against the side-wall and thus narrowly avoided both of them tumbling out of the closet in a tangled mess. John was distracted for a moment by the thought of how he would react if he were having a quiet night in front of the telly and suddenly two strangers having sex would tumble out of the closet. It occurred to him that what they were doing was a little beyond 'bit not good'.

Then Sherlock drew in a ragged breath and John's train of thought got derailed. He could feel the detective's wild heartbeat where he was pressed against his shoulder. John gave an experimental squeeze and was rewarded with a muffled moan from where Sherlock's head was still pressed into his shoulder. John briefly wondered what got the detective so worked up. Thinking about it, he realized that Sherlock had been giving him some pretty intense stares the whole day. John had paid it no mind, after all, Sherlock had a habit of staring intently at people and things. Now however, John was intrigued and wondered what could be at the bottom of this, when his gaze drifted down. Ah. Due to the warm weather, John had put on a nice purple shirt that fitted him rather snugly. It was very different from his usual attire, but he had thought nothing of it when he had put it on this morning. It had been his favourite for a long time, but then it had somehow gotten lost in the back of the cupboard. He filed the information away for later reflection.

John could feel the tension in Sherlock's whole body as the detective tried to remain perfectly still. He reflected that if somebody would make a list of the worst possible positions to give somebody a hand job, this would definitely end up in the top five. His arm was uncomfortably twisted behind his back and his shoulder was starting to hurt. He was glad he had chosen his right hand, so at least his bad left shoulder was unaffected.

John had always prided himself on being an expert in the difficult art of unhooking a bra in the middle of a make-out session. Now, in the process of unbuttoning and unzipping Sherlock's trousers, one-handedly and behind his back, he couldn't help but think that this deserved some sort of medal in the Sex Olympics. In the discipline of hand jobs in cramped spaces. Against all odds, he pulled it off and proceeded to slip his hand through the waistband of Sherlock's pants, taking him in hand. Sherlock reacted instantly by biting down hard on John's shoulder. John felt it painfully through the soft fabric and let out a half-choked sound that was somewhere between a moan and a surprised scream.

Sherlock started thrusting into his hand in earnest and it was all John could do to try and keep his balance and not get thrown through the doors. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's torso and tried to hold him in place. He was making muffled sounds where his head was buried in John's shoulder that might have been words. Please. John. Fuck. John. Please. His voice was impossibly low and desperate and the words went straight to John's cock. He felt Sherlock tense up behind him, his arms drawing around him so tightly that they crushed the air out of him and he knew that Sherlock was close. John turned his head slightly and whispered close to Sherlock's ear, his voice clearly betraying his arousal. "Brilliant." Sherlock came with a muffled scream that might have been John's name.

When it was over, Sherlock slumped behind him, the frantic energy completely drained out of him. John's heart was racing and he was feeling light-headed at having reduced Sherlock Holmes, the man who never lost control, to a writhing mess in his hands. John tried to clear his thoughts and reminded himself that they were still in some stranger's flat, in danger of discovery, when Sherlock's hands moved downwards from where they were placed on his chest and John's brain decided to stop thinking for a while.

Notes: Obviously, they had to have sex in the closet, since John refuses to come out of it. *BA DUM TSH*

This story has already been published at AO3.

This is only my second foray into the world of porn and I feel like it's not really my thing. Please let me know what you think.